Chapter XVIII: Flight

Southern Italy, autumn 55 BC

Abandoning their life in Rome on the spot, the friends crept out of the city's gates at dawn. They first passed south along the Via Appia, between the large tombs where the wealthy were buried. Few of the area's population of cut-price whores and thieves were awake to see them go by. Aware that their appearance would draw attention, they cut into the fields as soon as it was full light. Two heavily armed men who were not legionaries would mean bandits or runaway slaves to most citizens and so the whole journey was made across country, usually in the early mornings or late afternoons. Romulus and Brennus wanted to meet no one and avoided farmhouses and towns at all costs.

A quick raid on the ludus' kitchen before leaving provided bread, cheese and vegetables to last several days. Brennus took his bow as well as other weapons, allowing him to hunt for deer and boar as they travelled. Both men carried leather water bags which they filled regularly from streams. The cold weather meant that sleeping rough each night was not easy, but huddling in blankets under rough shelters, the clear sky above them glittering with thousands of stars, was better than crucifixion.

Latifundia, massive estates owned by the rich, dotted Campania and Apulia, the regions south of Rome. Romulus was amazed by the fields and hillsides covered in wheat, vines, olive and fruit trees. At night the groves supplied them with apples, plums and pears, juicy food that the young man had rarely tasted before. In daylight, impotent rage filled Romulus as he spied the countless miserable slaves working the farms, their ankles manacled together. Supervisors stood over each group, their whips ready to use at the slightest opportunity.

Every estate was the same.

Romulus quickly realised that the whole country ran on slave labour. No wonder Rome was so wealthy, when tens of thousands of its subjects had to work for nothing. The two friends had endless debates as they marched, Romulus imagining that they had killed Memor and started a second slave rebellion instead of ruining it all by visiting Publius' tavern. He still had very mixed feelings about that night. Because they had gone out, he had met Julia. Although he knew it was only an infatuation, the thought of her still made his heart flutter. The feeling was mixed with guilt at what might have been. If they had refrained from going out, perhaps they would have been marching past those very latifundia by now, freeing the slaves instead of skulking past like animals.

Brennus had not grasped the extent of the Republic's captive population before either, and was similarly outraged. On their journey he observed workers of every race and creed under the sun. Rome's appetite for slaves was insatiable, fed purely by war, and the annihilation of the Allobroges was obviously far from unique. To end up on Italian latifundia, those he saw must have suffered as he had done. It was abhorrent to him, but Brennus felt powerless to change things. He was no Spartacus. A warrior, yes. Not a general. He had been feeling guilty about not escaping the ludus sooner, but that was ebbing now. Maybe their rebellion would have succeeded. But more probably it wouldn't have. And how could Ultan's words have made any sense if he was fighting battles up and down the peninsula?

A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. The phrase had become Brennus' mantra; everything else paled before it. It was only by seeing the druid's prophecy fulfilled that he could imagine justifying his decision to flee, rather than to defend, his village six years before.

The two friends covered nearly three hundred miles in less than twenty days.

There had been plenty of time to brood.

Seeing the slave population had increased both men's desire to discard all memories of their own captivity. Romulus' and Brennus' brands were permanent evidence of their status and discovery once they were in the army would mean instant crucifixion. After a quick discussion, they agreed that there could only be one solution. Having found a suitable grove in the hills above Brundisium, Brennus had lit a fire and sharpened his dagger until it could shave a man. Encouraging Romulus to bite down on a piece of wood, he had heated the blade over the flames before removing the hated letters 'LM' with a few deft cuts. Blood ran down Romulus' arm in little lines and dripped to the ground. His eyes bulging in pain, he watched as the Gaul closed the wound using lengths of gut from an unravelled spare bowstring.

Brennus grinned. 'Might not be pretty, but it'll do. Keep it hidden for a while, and if anyone sees, you can say it was from a sword cut.'

The crude sutures would leave a rough scar, nothing like the neat work of the Greek surgeons in Rome who were paid by wealthy ex-slaves to remove their brands. Romulus didn't care. Memor's proof of ownership was gone for ever. But when he pulled out his own knife a moment later and reached for the Gaul's leg, Brennus stopped him.

'We can't both have a freshly stitched wound. Burn mine. Logs fall out of fires all the time.'

Romulus protested weakly, but he knew his friend was right. There was no mercy for escaped slaves. To avoid suspicion, they had to be different. He heated the dagger until the blade was glowing a dull red and then gritting his teeth, applied it to Brennus' calf. An instant smell of burning hair and flesh filled his nostrils.

The huge Gaul grimaced, allowing the searing pain to cleanse away some of the memories of slavery. 'We 'll stay here for a while,' he announced with a smile. 'Lick our wounds and get some rest. Then we can go down to the port.'

His smile was infectious and Romulus grinned.

One last ordeal, but now they were truly free.

Brundisium's harbour was humming with activity. A large town, it had been transformed by the arrival of Crassus' army. Thousands of soldiers, tons of equipment and weapons filled the narrow jetties, waiting to embark for Asia Minor. The skyline was a forest of masts. Dozens of triremes rocked gently in the water, tied close together. Sailors swarmed back and forth, cursing the clumsiness of their passengers.

Mules brayed as they were forced down wooden gangways on to ships. Officers barked orders, pushing and shoving men into line. Messengers scurried between units, relaying orders.

Brennus and Romulus worked their way through the throng, searching for somewhere to join up. At length they found a makeshift desk of sacks of flour on the main dock. An old centurion was standing behind the temporary arrangement, bawling orders at new recruits.

He stared calculatingly at the dirty pair as they came to a halt.

'Farmers, eh?'

'That's right, sir.'

Romulus kept silent, taking in the phalerae hanging from the moulded leather breastplate and the silver torque round his neck. This was clearly a brave man.

'Well armed, aren't you?' He pointed at the heavy spears, the bow, swords and daggers, the well-made shields.

'We 're from Transalpine Gaul, sir,' explained Brennus. 'The bandits are plentiful and we have to know how to fight.'

'Hmmm. Thought you were a Gaul.' The officer eyed Brennus' bulging muscles and the scars on his arms. 'Why come to Brundisium?'

'The great general is leading an army to Jerusalem. I'm told the booty will be good.'

'So all the new recruits say.' The centurion scratched short grey stubble, looking Brennus up and down shrewdly. 'You're not escaped slaves?'

'No, sir.' The Gaul kept a blank face, Romulus copying him. Aping the Roman military cut, both men had cut their hair short that morning.

'Slaves are forbidden to join the military under any circumstances. It is a crime punishable by death. Understand?'

'We are free men, sir.'

The officer grunted, considering the tally on the calfskin parchment before him. 'And the lad?'

'Fights better than most grown men, sir.'

'Does he, by Jupiter?'

'Taught him myself, sir.'

'A bit young, but I suppose he's as big as most.' The centurion pushed forward a stylus. 'You enlist for three years minimum. Stay with the army for twenty and you'll be granted Roman citizenship. The pay is a hundred denarii per year in equal instalments every four months. Depending on the situation.'

'Situation, sir?' Romulus spoke for the first time, affecting Brennus' thick accent as best he could.

'If we're in the middle of a damn war, you don't get paid!'

'A hundred denarii?' Romulus turned to his friend with disbelief. The purse from Pompey alone had contained five times that amount.

Brennus frowned.

The centurion laughed, misinterpreting the remark. 'A lot of money,' he said. 'Crassus' son Publius is a generous man. He wants the finest infantry to fight beside his cavalry.'

Romulus grinned vacuously as if he had only just understood. After all, they weren't joining Crassus' army for the wages.

'You provide your own clothes and weapons. Costs for equipment, food and the burial club get deducted from pay. And when I tell you to do something, do it fast! Otherwise you'll feel this across your backs.' He slapped a vine cane on the sacks of flour. 'I command the cohort, but I'm also your centurion! Clear?'

They nodded.

The officer tapped the parchment with a gnarled forefinger. 'Put your marks here.'

The pair exchanged a long glance. Once they joined, there was no going back. With a shrug, Brennus picked up the stylus in his huge hand and marked the document. Romulus followed suit.

'Good!' The centurion smiled briefly. 'I'm putting you both under my direct command. Names?'

'Brennus, sir. This is Romulus.'

'Romulus?' he said with interest. 'A good Italian name. Who was your father?'

'Roman legionary, sir.' Romulus couldn't think of anything else to say. 'Mother wanted to honour his memory.'

'There is a Roman look to you. Should have a warrior's mettle too.' He seemed pleased. 'Call me Senior Centurion Bassius. Wait over there with the rest of the cohort.'

'When do we set sail, Senior Centurion?'

'Tonight. The general's keen to start the campaign immediately.'

Romulus stared at Brundisium, now barely visible through the orangeyellow haze. It was nearly sunset, and the sea had changed from bright blue to a deep navy. A gentle breeze was propelling the Roman fleet away from shore. Other triremes could be made out in the failing light, companions to the one they had embarked on. Dozens of long wooden oars made a smooth sound as they moved in unison to cut the water's surface.

The Achilles was a typical low-slung Roman ship with a single cloth sail, three banks of oars and a bronze ram at the prow. The decks were bare except for the captain's cabin at the stern and catapults for attacking enemy ships.

'Good riddance!' Brennus spat over the timbers of the side. 'The bastards won't find us now.'

'When can we return to Italy?'

'A few years. Murder of a noble takes a while to be forgotten.'

Romulus scowled at that prospect. Thoughts of his family, Caelius and Julia had filled his mind on their march south, but he would have to put all such thoughts to one side. It would serve little purpose to spend his time worrying about situations that were now so completely out of his control.

'We should have stayed in the ludus that night.'

'Maybe we should.' Brennus looked east, his eyes distant. 'But the gods meant this to happen. I feel it in my bones.'

Romulus followed his gaze. The horizon was formed by the darkening sky's junction with the black sea, making it impossible to see where they met. Beyond lay the unknown, a world Romulus had thought he would never see. But anything seemed possible now.

He came back to the present with a shiver. 'What will happen to Astoria?'

The Gaul's face grew sad. 'Sextus has promised to protect her and if the gods are merciful, we will meet again. But I cannot avoid my destiny. We had no choice but to run and Astoria knows that.' Their farewell had been all too brief and when Brennus had tried to stay longer, the Nubian had kissed him softly and pushed him out the door. Astoria knew how much Ultan's words meant to her lover. Follow your destiny, she had whispered.

Brennus sighed heavily.

Romulus knew how he felt.

The consequences of the fight had been devastating for both. Brennus' life as a champion gladiator was over, his woman lost. Romulus was wanted for murder and both were fugitives from justice. Unless Astoria managed to get his message through, Julia would have presumed the worst of him for not showing up. Romulus' plans for a slave rebellion were dust, and although he was free it seemed even more unlikely that he would ever see his family again, let alone rescue them. Instead he was sailing into the east, a soldier in Crassus' army.

That meant Gemellus would go unpunished.

He scowled at the chance train of events that had led them to be sitting on Achilles' deck. If only they had not left the ludus. If only they had not stopped outside the Lupanar. If only he had not killed a noble.

But he had.

Romulus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Like Brennus, he would have to place his trust in the gods. In Jupiter, Greatest and Best. He alone could alter the situation now.

'Reef the sail!' The second in command, an experienced optio, bellowed at the nearest crew. Roman ships never used sails at night, relying instead on the power of the oars.

The sailors obeyed rapidly, pulling on halyards that gathered the heavy cloth against the crossbar of the mast. When it had been furled to his satisfaction, the optio paced Achilles' sun-bleached deck, ensuring the catapults had been lashed down and all loose pieces of equipment tidied away.

Low thudding from the drum reached them through the timbers underfoot. Its speed determined how fast the oarsmen had to row. Driven by curiosity, Romulus had already explored the cramped soldiers' quarters on the armoury deck and the claustrophobic space below that where slaves sat chained to benches. He shuddered at the thought of permanent confinement in the hot, stale air breathed by two hundred others. Men on the oars were fed far more than the soldiers would receive daily, but that was little compensation. Most were criminals or prisoners of war who would serve below until they died. And it was not unheard of for ordinary slaves to be sent to the galleys as punishment.

The freedom Romulus had begun to enjoy suddenly felt quite fragile.

'Nobody will find us, will they?' he whispered to Brennus.

Smiling, the Gaul threw a massive arm round his shoulders. 'We 're in the legions now. As long as we can fight, no one gives a damn.'

Romulus glanced across at their new commander who was talking to a fellow centurion and the captain of Achilles. He had taken an instant liking to Bassius, whose composed manner was rubbing off on the new recruits. Few seemed to be warriors, but they appeared happy enough sitting on the gently moving deck. It was not surprising that the old officer had picked both him and Brennus for his unit. The two centuries on the trireme, one hundred and sixty men, were mostly Gaulish farmers, dressed in worn tunics and trousers and armed with an assortment of longswords, spears and daggers. The rest of Bassius' cohort he had seen embarking at the port were similar in appearance. The centurion's relaxed attitude to their status was more clear now. Apart from the sailors, the gladiators were almost the only warlike ones on board.

Crassus' need for thousands of mercenary soldiers had meant practically every able-bodied man who presented himself for service had been enlisted. Plenty of landless peasants were in search of employment, victims of Caesar's campaign in Gaul. Whole tribes had been displaced from their lands. News of the campaign must have reached a long way for these farmers to have journeyed to Brundisium.

It was warmer below and many men had chosen to sleep there rather than on the deck where the breeze off the sea blew strong and chill. Romulus and Brennus secured a sheltered spot in the stern and made themselves comfortable. They sat wrapped in woollen blankets, chewing on bread and cheese bought earlier in the bustling market near the harbour.

'Enjoy it.' Brennus shoved a piece into his mouth. 'Could be our last fresh food for a while. It'll be bucellatum and acetum from now on.'

'What?'

'Hard-tack biscuit — dry, miserable stuff, and sour wine.'

'We should be able to scavenge for supplies in Lydia, don't you think?'

Standing over them was a slightly built man with a thin face and long hair bleached blond by the sun. Gold winked from an earring in his right ear and a small crooked staff hung from one hand.

'Do you mind if I sit?' The stranger carried himself easily.

Brennus sized him up. 'Suit yourself,' he said, shifting over.

Romulus had not noticed the man before, who was of indeterminate age, somewhere between twenty-five and forty. His chest was protected by an unusual hide cuirass covered in linked bronze rings and he wore a short leather-bordered skirt similar to those worn by centurions. A viciouslooking double-headed battleaxe hung from his back by a short strap. Dangling from a narrow belt was a little pouch and on the deck by his feet sat a well used leather pack.

'Have you just joined?'

'What's it to you?' Romulus did not yet feel safe.

The stranger unslung his axe and sat down with a sigh. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a large piece of dried pork and cut off a few slices with a sharp dagger. 'Care for some?'

The Gaul's eyes lit up. 'Thanks. Don't mind if I do. I'm Brennus and this is Romulus.'

'Tarquinius is my name.'

Romulus proffered a piece of cheese and the newcomer accepted it with a nod.

Brennus pointed at the iron blades of Tarquinius' axe. 'Mean looking weapon.'

'It has its uses,' he replied, rubbing his hand along the wooden shaft with a smile. 'And I'll wager you can handle yourself in a tight spot.'

'I can if I have to!' Brennus slapped the longsword he had taken from the ludus and all three laughed.

There was silence as they ate. The sun had set, leaving a thin red line along the horizon to mark its passage. Soon it would be completely dark and overhead the sky was filling with stars.

'There will be terrible storms on the voyage,' said Tarquinius suddenly. 'Twelve ships will be lost, but this one will be safe.'

They both stared at him with shock.

'How can you tell?' asked Romulus nervously.

'It is written in the stars.' His voice was deep and sonorous, almost musical.

He talks like Ultan, thought Brennus.

The breeze strengthened for a moment and Romulus shivered. 'You are a soothsayer?'

'Something like that.' He paused. 'But I can fight too.'

Romulus didn't doubt that. 'Where are you from?'

'Etruria.' There was a faraway look in Tarquinius' eyes. 'North of Rome.'

'A citizen?' Brennus said quickly. 'Why aren't you in a regular legion?'

Tarquinius gazed into his eyes and smiled. 'What are two runaway slaves doing in the army as mercenaries?'

'Keep your voice down!' hissed the big gladiator.

The Etruscan raised an eyebrow.

'We 're no slaves,' Brennus muttered.

'Then why has the young man got such a fresh wound on his upper arm?' Tarquinius responded. 'Just where a brand should be.'

Romulus guiltily pulled down his sleeve, but it was too late. Lying down had let the rough fabric of his jerkin ride up his arm, revealing the telltale stitching. 'We got waylaid on our journey,' he muttered. 'The roads are dangerous, especially at night.'

Fortunately no one else seemed to be paying attention. Other soldiers were busy settling down for the night.

Tarquinius raised an eyebrow. 'And I thought you were gladiators.'

Their shocked faces told him everything.

'I am. was. the best fighter in Rome! Bought our freedom with my winnings,' blustered Brennus.

'If you say so.' Tarquinius fingered the gold ring that hung from a chain round his neck. It was decorated with a scarab beetle. 'Nothing to do with the death of a noble, then?' Olenus has been avenged, he thought with satisfaction.

They both stiffened.

How can he know about that? thought Romulus with alarm. He wasn't there.

There was silence as the Gaul laid a hand on his sword. 'No,' he said stonily.

Tarquinius did not react to the obvious lie. 'I myself have no wish to be known as an Etruscan. I joined the cohort as a Greek.'

'What are you running from?'

'We all have something to hide.' He smiled. 'Let's say that, like you, I had to leave Italy in a hurry.'

They relaxed slightly.

'You speak Greek?' asked Romulus.

'And many other languages.'

'Why are you telling us all this?' Romulus self-consciously rubbed his wound, which would have to remain hidden until it had fully healed.

'Simple. You both look like fighters. More than I can say for those sorrylooking bastards.' Tarquinius jerked his head dismissively behind him. The Gauls were definitely farmers rather than warriors.

Brennus gave them an appraising glance. 'Bassius will knock them into shape. I've seen worse specimens turned into good soldiers.'

'Perhaps. You are the warrior.' Tarquinius reached into the satchel again and produced a small amphora. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he offered it to Brennus.

The Gaul did not accept.

'Don't trust me?' Tarquinius barked with amusement and took a deep swallow before offering it again. 'We have a long journey and many battles lie ahead. Why would I offer you poison?'

'I apologise. I've spent too many years in the ludus,' said Brennus, taking the wine. 'You have shared food and drink and I have only been rude in response.' He held out his right hand.

The Etruscan gripped it with a smile and the slight tension that had been present since he introduced himself disappeared.

'And you, Romulus?' The soothsayer's eyes danced. 'Would you be friends also?'

Romulus chose what he said with care. 'I will be your friend if you will be mine.'

'Wise words from one so young!' Tarquinius threw back his head and laughed again, drawing the attention of the nearest Gauls.

They clasped forearms.

For some time, the three sat enjoying Tarquinius' wine, talking about what they might find in Asia Minor. As the air cooled, the other recruits curled up and slept in wool blankets. To Romulus' delight, the Etruscan was full of knowledge about their destination.

'Very hot, I can tell you.'

'Worse than Rome in the summer?'

'Like a baker's oven during Saturnalia. And nothing but sand and rocks as far as you can see.'

'Still better than a crucifix on the Campus Martius,' interjected Brennus.

'True,' replied Tarquinius. 'But Mesopotamia will be like Hades itself.'

'I thought we were going to Jerusalem.'

Tarquinius lowered his voice. 'Not many know it yet, but our general is set on invading the Parthian empire.'

Romulus and Brennus looked at him blankly.

'The Parthians live in the Mesopotamian desert east of Judaea,' explained Tarquinius. 'Beyond the River Euphrates.' Quickly he outlined the geography of the region to them.

Intrigued, Romulus soaked up the information.

'Go on.' Brennus was also interested.

'Rome has been at peace with Parthia for some years, but Crassus intends to change that.'

'How can you know this?' asked the Gaul.

'Before enlisting, I sacrificed a lamb to Tinia. The Romans call him Jupiter,' replied the Etruscan. 'And the liver clearly showed a campaign into Parthia.'

Brennus became less scornful. Ultan had been able to read the future from animals' organs and had accurately predicted many things — including his own tribe 's annihilation. He shivered, remembering the druid's last words to him. 'Why, though?' he asked.

'Simple! Seleucia, the Parthian capital, is wealthy beyond compare.'

'But Crassus is already the richest man in Rome,' said Romulus. He had seen the evidence with his own eyes.

'Money is not the only thing driving Crassus. He's tired of Pompey and Caesar's successes. A successful military campaign is the only way to reclaim some glory.' The Etruscan chuckled in the darkness. 'Popularity with the people. Power over the Senate and equestrian class. That is all that matters in Rome.'

Up till then Romulus had been vaguely aware of the politics and intense rivalry between the members of the ruling classes, but as a slave it had affected him little. Life had been a constant battle for survival, affording him no time to ponder deeper meanings and who controlled what. But Tarquinius' words made perfect sense — the nobility were in control of the campaign, just like the gladiator contests they had left behind.

It did not feel right. He had thought they were free.

'So this is just another Roman invasion.' There was palpable anger in Brennus' voice. 'Will they never be satisfied?'

'Only when they have conquered the world,' Tarquinius replied.

The big man stared up at the stars, brooding.

'Nearly four centuries have passed since my people were vanquished. Yet I still grieve,' Tarquinius whispered. 'Just as you must about the passing of your tribe.'

Brennus' face filled with anger.

The Etruscan raised both hands, palms extended. 'I was passing through Transalpine Gaul a while back. Heard about the Allobroges' final battle. They said that thousands of Romans had been killed.'

Pride flared in Brennus' eyes. 'What makes you think I'm an Allobroge?'

Tarquinius smiled. 'Not much. The pigtails you had till very recently. The longsword. The way you talk.'

The Gaul laughed and Romulus relaxed.

The ship's timbers creaked gently as it moved through the water.

Romulus had rarely considered how the Romans were responsible for the suffering of other peoples. Now, seeing the emotion on Brennus' face, the truth hit him hard. The dozen races of fighters in the ludus had been there only because of the Republic's belligerent tendencies. Like Tarquinius and Brennus, their tribes had been massacred for their wealth and land. Rome was a state based on war and slavery. Romulus suddenly felt ashamed of his blood.

'Some races are destined to be greater than others and they will stop at nothing to achieve it. Such are the Romans,' said Tarquinius, reading his mind. 'That doesn't make you personally responsible for their actions.'

Romulus sighed, remembering Gemellus' rants about the founding principles of the Republic having long been subverted. All that seemed to matter now was for nobles such as Pompey, Caesar and Crassus to retain power, using the blood of ordinary men and slaves to make them rich. It was a chilling realisation. Romulus swore silently that once the campaign was over, he would never again submit to the Roman system.

'What happens is pre-ordained. When it was time, Etruria fell. Now Rome's influence is growing.'

'Nothing happens by chance?' asked Romulus.

'Nothing,' answered Tarquinius confidently. 'Not even you and your sister being sold. Not this journey. Or your future.'

The hairs on Romulus' neck rose. 'How can you know about Fabiola?'

But the Etruscan was in full flow. 'And all the while, the world keeps turning. We are just swept along with it.'

'Every fool knows that the world is flat!' interjected Brennus.

'No. You know much, but the world is round, not flat. That is how we can travel around it without falling off.'

The Gaul was taken aback. 'Where does this knowledge come from?'

'I spent years of my childhood under a great master, Olenus Aesar.' Tarquinius bowed his head.

Satisfied, Brennus nodded respectfully. The secrets of druidic lore had also been taught to Ultan by his predecessor. Perhaps Tarquinius would be able to shed some light on the old man's prophecy?

'I want to learn things like that,' said Romulus eagerly.

'It will all be revealed.' The Etruscan lay down, stretching out his legs on the deck. 'Can you read and write?'

Romulus hesitated. 'No,' he admitted.

'I will teach you.'

He burned to ask more questions, but Tarquinius had turned away to gaze at the night sky. Romulus lay back on his blanket, enjoying the movement of cool air across his skin. Their new friend's revelations had been incredible. Nobody on Achilles had met either of them before today, yet Tarquinius had known about both Fabiola and the Gaul's tribe. And what had happened outside the brothel. Clearly full of mystical ability, the Etruscan could also read and write. These were rare talents.

Being taught to use a stylus would be Romulus' first step towards real freedom. His doubts about leaving Italy began to dissipate. With two friends like Brennus and Tarquinius, there could be little to worry about.

The Gaul was snoring loudly in the darkness, oblivious. The noise kept Romulus awake for some time.

'Tarquinius?' he whispered, still eager to talk.

'What is it?'

'You know where Brennus and I came from. Our backgrounds.' How I killed Caelius, he thought with a shiver.

'Much of it.'

'So tell me what you are hiding.' Though it was dark Romulus could feel the Etruscan's gaze.

'One day. Not now.'

Curiosity filled him, but there had been an air of finality to Tarquinius' response. Romulus closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Several days into the voyage, the fleet was hit by a powerful storm that sank a dozen triremes and scattered the rest far and wide. Hundreds of legionaries and sailors were drowned, but the Achilles did not suffer as much as a scratch to her timbers. Tarquinius said nothing but Brennus began looking at their new friend with awe. Used to tales of rogue soothsayers in the temples, Romulus was less sure. It was autumn, after all.

Whatever the reason for the bad weather, it was an inauspicious start to Crassus' campaign, and rumours of bad luck began to pass between the vessels. Tarquinius did not seem perturbed by these, which seemed to relieve Brennus. But nothing further occurred to worry the superstitious soldiers and Romulus soon forgot about the Etruscan's predictions.

The fleet sailed on, past hundreds of islands forming the coastline of Greece. Seaworthy enough to venture into open water for no more than two or three days, the ships stayed close to shore. The Romans' skill at land warfare did not extend to shipbuilding. Triremes were built to sail along Republican-controlled coasts, keeping the peace — the pax Romanum.

Every sunset the flotilla dropped anchor, allowing the exhausted oarsmen time to rest. Armed parties were sent ashore to fill water barrels from rivers and streams. The food was just as Brennus predicted — hard tack and sour wine. Few of the new soldiers complained. They were happy just to be fed twice daily.

On a number of occasions, Romulus saw entire beaches covered in the burnt skeletons of ship frames, evidence of the Cilicians crushed by Pompey. The ferocious pirates had preyed on shipping for decades, costing Rome a fortune in lost trade. After a short pursuit around the eastern Mediterranean, Pompey had cornered the renegades ten years previously and crushed them. It had been a hugely popular victory for him.

A few raiders had returned to the area since, but they did not dare attack the vastly superior force. One day Romulus and his companions saw a group of sleek, dangerous looking vessels in the mouth of a small inlet only a few hundred paces away. Dark-skinned men stood watching fearfully from their decks.

But there would be no battle, as Crassus' captains were under strict orders not to delay.

Brennus raised his longsword and beckoned. 'Come and fight!'

'They prey on the weak,' Tarquinius observed. 'Not a fleet with thousands of soldiers.'

'It's been too long since I had a bout!'

The Etruscan turned his gaze back to the pirates.

'There 'll be all the fighting you need very soon.' Bassius had heard the outburst and stepped in, thinking he was preventing a quarrel. 'Quieten down.'

'Yes, sir.' The Gaul's face dropped.

'Come on, Brennus.' By now, Romulus knew the tempering effect he had on his friend. 'Show me those moves you were talking about. That all right, Senior Centurion?'

Bassius knew the journey was boring two of his best soldiers. 'I want no injuries,' he said gruffly. 'Cover your weapons.'

The pair hurried to obey. Realising there was going to be some action, the recruits quickly formed a circle on the deck. Brennus and Romulus practised every morning and by now everyone had deduced that they were trained fighters. Both men had already spent time helping Bassius teach the more eager ones some basic techniques.

Brennus crouched down, scowling ferociously. 'Let's take some wind out of your sails.'

Romulus pointed at the Gaul's belly. 'Getting fat with all this lying about!'

Laughing, the big warrior raised his longsword, its lethal edge covered in leather.

Romulus moved towards him slowly, bare feet sure on the hot deck.

Watching Brennus and his young protege spar, Tarquinius smiled. It had been many years since he trusted anyone, but the pair of runaways were becoming good friends.

Olenus' words had returned to him many times since their meeting. A voyage to Lydia by ship. There two gladiators become your friends. 'You were wrong, Olenus. For once,' the Etruscan whispered wryly. 'I met them on the way. Not when I got there.'

Having sailed hundreds of miles from the heel of Italy to the shores of Asia Minor, Crassus' triremes finally entered a wide, shallow uninhabited bay, filling it from one end to another. A long beach lined the sea's edge. The ground above was a less welcoming burnt ochre. The sun hung in a bright blue windless sky, casting intense heat on sunburnt soldiers and sailors. In the crystal clear water below the Achilles, Romulus could see fish swimming round the large stone anchor.

A protective cordon of legionaries was sent ashore to ensure the force landed without danger of attack. Then organised chaos reigned for two days as the army disembarked, carrying tons of equipment and food off by hand. Only the mules, braying and angry as ever, swam to the beach of their own accord.

Bassius' irregulars had to wade in through chest-high water. Unable to swim, Romulus, Brennus and the others pushed uneasily towards the land while Tarquinius swam confidently around them, laughing. Emerging on to the sand, the Etruscan swept back his long hair, drying it with his hands. As he did, Romulus noticed a red triangular mark on the side of his neck.

Quickly Tarquinius let his blond locks fall back into place.

'What's that?'

'Just a birthmark.'

'It's an unusual shape.'

Ignoring him, Tarquinius crouched down, sorting through the items he had placed in a pig's bladder before they jumped off the Achilles' deck.

Curiosity filled Romulus, but he got no chance to ask. Bassius was already roaring at them, keen to get his men into marching order.

Crassus supervised the operation from higher ground above the shoreline. An enormous pavilion had been erected, allowing the general every comfort while the soldiers toiled in baking temperatures below. Filled with carpets, tables, beds and partitioned rooms, the leather tent would serve as his command centre for the duration of the campaign. There were even a number of prostitutes, brought by his son Publius to pleasure senior officers.

A red flag — the vexillum — hung limply from a pole embedded in the ground. It showed every soldier Crassus' position. Hand-picked legionaries stood guard day and night, while messengers and trumpeters were positioned nearby to relay orders.

Bassius commanded one cohort — six centuries — of irregulars. Ten cohorts had been formed to fight with the regulars and the old centurion's unit had been attached to the Sixth Legion. Once all the men were on dry land, Bassius bellowed and screamed to get them across the sand to their position. The Sixth was already waiting, each well drilled cohort ranked behind the next.

'Move it!' Bassius was unimpressed at the sloppiness of his four hundred and eighty recruits. He and the other centurions had been training them on board, but it was not yet enough. 'By Jupiter, the real soldiers are laughing at us!'

Trumpets sounded once the mercenaries were in place and the front ranks moved forward, following the regulars. Four legions had landed on the same beach weeks before, erecting vast temporary camps some distance inland. The Sixth had not marched for long before reaching them. The playing-card-shaped forts consisted of earthen ramparts the height of a man. Soil used in the construction came from deep trenches that ran round the perimeter. Sentries stood guard in tall wooden watchtowers on the corners. Only one entrance broke the middle of each side. Two straight roads connected the four gates, cutting the camp into equal parts. The legion's headquarters were situated at their intersection and around this every century had an allocated position which never varied.

More commands blared from the bucinae. Swiftly half the legion fanned out in a screen around the rest.

'Time for some real work,' Bassius shouted. 'Lay down all equipment except weapons and shovels.'

The senior centurion knew what he was doing. Leading them to a section of what would be the perimeter, he liaised briefly with a regular officer. Soon Bassius' men were sweating and cursing as they dug.

Romulus had seldom seen such industry as he watched the legionaries nearby digging ditches and ramparts, hundreds of figures working in unison. It seemed soldiers of the Republic were not just fighters, but labourers and engineers as well.

Romulus' pride at being Roman began to return despite the fact that both of his friends' peoples had been crushed by its might. It was hard not to be stirred by the precision and discipline shown by Crassus' army. Every single man seemed to know exactly what to do. Three hours later, line upon line of tents went up in orderly fashion inside the new ramparts' protection. Each century took its place, marked by a unique cloth standard. Bassius positioned the mercenaries beside Publius' cavalry.

On the Achilles, they had been issued with a large leather tent used by regular legionaries but it had not been needed until now. Bassius had seemed content that Romulus, Brennus and Tarquinius should serve in the same contubernium, a group of eight men who lived and cooked together. The friends had got to know their five comrades on the voyage. Varro, Genucius and Felix were dour peasants from Cisalpine Gaul, driven from their land by the Romans. Joseph and Appius were short, wily men from Egypt, exiled for crimes they would only hint at.

They had not been relaxing round their tents for long when Bassius asked permission of one of the tribunes to start training his cohort. The veteran had had enough of twiddling his thumbs. Flanked by the five other centurions, Bassius stood with hands on hips, glaring at the sweating mercenaries.

'Time to start some proper military training. You've had long enough sitting on your arses.'

Most soldiers looked unhappy but Brennus rubbed his hands with glee.

'Form up! Attention!'

The irregulars quickly shuffled into rank, staring ahead as they had been had taught.

'Stand up!' Bassius stalked between the lines, straightening backs, tapping chins with his vine cane. 'Pretend to have spines, even if you haven't!'

At last the old centurion was satisfied and, directing a number of men to carry with them heavy wooden stakes procured from the quartermaster, Bassius led the cohort out of the busy camp, on to the flat ground in front.

Other centurions had similar ideas. The area was full of irregulars running, jumping and sparring with each other. After long weeks at sea, the officers of Crassus' army knew they had to get the men quickly into shape. It would be two months before the whole host was ready to march to the east, a short time to turn farmers into trained soldiers.

'Looks like some time at the palus again!'

'Gods above!' laughed Brennus. 'As if we need that. A good run would be more like it.'

Once the stakes had been hammered into the iron-hard ground, Bassius and his comrades began to instruct groups of recruits in basic weapons training. Romulus and his friends only had to cut and thrust at the palus once or twice before Bassius judged them hugely experienced. The three stood watching as the bemused Gauls were put through their paces. The veteran had obtained training equipment, wooden swords and wicker shields twice as heavy as the real thing and he worked the sweating men hard. It was the same method taught in gladiator school.

'What do you think you're doing?' Bassius roared at the trio a few moments later. 'No standing around! Four laps of the perimeter. At the trot!'

Romulus stayed beside the grinning Gaul as they ran along the defensive trench around the camp.

Brennus began loosening his shoulders. 'Just what we need,' he said.

Tarquinius remained silent, observing the legions as they moved into position. Romulus could hear him muttering.

'Crassus has too many infantry. Fool!'

'What's wrong?'

'Look.' The Etruscan pointed out the thousands of legionaries training in the hot sun. 'No horsemen.'

Romulus found it hard not to be stirred by the magnificent sight of so many soldiers moving in unison but his eyes narrowed as he saw what Tarquinius meant. The ancient battles mentioned by Cotta had involved large numbers of cavalry. They were a vital part of any army.

'All I have seen are the Gauls beside our tent lines, and a couple of cohorts of Iberians. Barely two thousand.' Tarquinius wiped his brow. 'That's not enough.'

Brennus punched the air with each fist, indicating to Romulus that he copy the action. 'Thirty thousand infantry should crush any enemy,' he panted, still finding it bizarre that he was now serving in the Roman army. An army which had crushed his people.

'Numbers aren't everything. Think about Hannibal,' countered Romulus. 'A lot of his victories against superior forces were thanks to his cavalry.'

Tarquinius was pleased by the insight. 'And the Parthians will have hardly any foot soldiers.'

'So how do they fight?' asked Brennus in surprise.

'Mounted archers. They attack in rapid waves, firing arrows.' Tarquinius plucked an imaginary bowstring. 'Storms of them.'

'Two thousand horse will struggle to contain those,' said Brennus.

'Precisely. And that's before the cataphracts charge.'

The word was unknown to Romulus and Brennus.

'Cataphracts — fully armoured mounts and riders.'

Romulus felt uneasy. 'Surely Crassus knows this too?'

'He is relying on the king of Armenia,' Tarquinius said thoughtfully. 'Artavasdes has up to six thousand cavalry.'

'That's all right then, surely?'

'If Crassus doesn't throw away the opportunity.'

They waited for him to continue. A stiff breeze sprang up and Romulus shivered. The army had seemed invincible.

Seemed.

'What do you mean?' Brennus was also concerned.

'First we have to march across Asia Minor, into Syria and Judaea,' said the Etruscan lightly. 'The stars and sea currents show several possible outcomes.'

Brennus relaxed. During the voyage, he had come to trust Tarquinius implicitly, his predictions of bad weather and sightings of pirates proving correct virtually every time.

'If Crassus marches us into Armenia with Artavasdes,' Tarquinius continued, 'we could be feasting in Seleucia in eighteen months!'

But Romulus was sceptical of Tarquinius' words, which plainly covered all outcomes. He had yet to be convinced of the soothsayer's power. The young soldier had persuaded himself that Tarquinius must have overheard him and Brennus talking about the fight outside the brothel. And anticipating the odd storm and the presence of pirates in wild backwaters was hardly proof of mystical ability.

At the mention of Seleucia, Brennus shivered. No Allobroge could ever have travelled that far, he thought. Is that where my journey will end?

They ran on, passing a group of senior officers clustered round a stocky man outside one of the camps. None even glanced at the three soldiers passing by. Sunlight reflected brightly off the central figure 's gilded breastplate.

Crassus was planning the campaign ahead.

'Our fates are in his hands,' said Romulus.

'It has already been decided,' pronounced Tarquinius. 'Our destinies are not linked for ever. And Crassus' fate is his own.'

Romulus increased his pace. There 'd been enough talk of ill omens and bad luck. All he wanted to do was to push himself physically, to forget everything else for a while. His friends would give him guidance when needed. Despite Tarquinius' predictions about the army's shortcomings, it was hard to imagine how such a massive force could possibly fail.

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